The Price of his Attention
by Ethelwyn
Summary: There isn't that much that can keep the attention of Sherlock Holmes for a longer period of time. John Watson craves it so much, that he is willing to pay any price. One-shot. Very Mature. S/m


**The Price of his Attention**

There isn't that much that can keep the attention of Sherlock Holmes for a longer period of time. John Watson craves it so much, that he is willing to pay any price. One-shot. Very Mature. S/m

**Warnings:** This is graphic slash, man on man, anyone who doesn't like it, shouldn't read it. Also there is S/m and drug use. If your not a doctor or genius consulting detective, don't try this at home.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now BBC. I'm only borrowing them for a little tour around my filthy, filthy mind.

**Info:** Lidocaine is an anesthetic that can be used in sprays and gels and doesn't have to be injected

Sildenafil is the name of the active ingredient in Viagra. The drug needs sexual stimulus to have the desired effect. So if you pop it in and watch a long winding political debate, nothing will happen.

GHB, which is also called "the date-rape-drug", will make a victim sleep almost comatose in a high dosage. In a lower one, it acts as a sort of aphrodisiac, lowering the victims inhibitions, making it feel euphoric and is sexually stimulating

* * *

><p>Mycroft was just absolutely, utterly clueless. John had to bite his tongue.<p>

„Don't be alarmed. It has to do with sex."

„Sex doesn't alarm me."

John's eyes followed this verbal sparring-contest. He did not move otherwise. Mycroft couldn't see it. He did not know his brother as well as he thought. At a cursory glance Sherlock's reaction was defensive, as his chin retracted, his eyebrows lifted slightly.

„How would you know," Mycroft asked in a derisive manner.

John saw it. The spite. The contempt for Mycroft's cluelessness. The elder brother praised himself on his position and intellect and even more so on his knowledge. It was his job to know. But he did not. At least not about Sherlock.

The younger brother did not correct him. No. John knew, he reveled in the knowledge of just how ignorant Mycroft truly was. Sherlock actually looked offended at the innuendo. A real actor.

He, John, could enlighten Mycroft. He was sure he could tell him things about his brother and sex, that would make even an experienced, worldly wise man like him blush.

But John wouldn't. He couldn't. He could not reveal, what the man did to him. Not ever. He would not. Because then it would stop.

As the topic strayed to the facts of the case at hand, John felt his gaze stray, too. He did his best to make it look like he admired the _interieur_. They were at the Buckingham Palace after all. But it weren't the paintings or the Persian rug nor the art objects carefully spread around the room, that captured his true interest. It was the man sitting beside him. How he hated Mycroft for forcing him into his cloths! Sure, Sherlock did look perfect, as always in his dark dress-shirt and dark suit. But sitting next to him, while nothing had been between them but the thin layer of the white sheet, wrapped oh so tight around him... knowing nothing was beneath it... nothing but delicious, soft, pale, naked skin...

A hard pinch to his thigh brought him back to reality. He managed to keep the painful hiss from escaping. He must have had _that_ gaze, for Sherlock to do that. It didn't matter. To the outsider his look seemed dumb-struck. Too much information for the dense side-kick. John didn't care. They didn't know any better. They never would. It was his wonderful, delicious, viciously dangerous, shameful secret.

Sometimes it hurt. Physically. But he was - had been – a soldier. He was used to physical discomfort, pain. There was a part of him, that craved it, he had learned. The physical pain did not hurt. Not the way it hurt, when Sherlock turned cold. He had the ability to shatter people in one sentence. He could shatter John without words. Silence. Distance. Cold. Those were the weapons at Sherlock's disposal and he was an expert with all of them, wielding them with cunning proficiency, nicking him, only to annoy him, watch him squirm, or cut him so deep, he lay bleeding, within an inch of his life.

Why did he let him do it?

Because of the other times. When it was him and Sherlock against the rest of the world. When he was the only one in the know. When they were panting and sweating and spent. Because no one could compare to the great Sherlock Holmes and nothing could rival the special feeling, when he focused all of his attention on you and you alone.

No. Mycroft was just absolutely, utterly clueless. He did not know his brother. Not the way John did. He might guess there was a dark side. But John? John knew it intimately. He played with it, played with the fire. Even got burned in it once or twice. But he had to keep playing. It was the only way. It was the only way to keep Sherlock interested. Repetition was boring. There had to be always something new, some excitement, something dangerous, something that piqued his interest.

John smiled at Mycroft as he was telling something or other about the case. The elder Holmes thought of him as Sherlock's pet. John knew that. But Mycroft had no idea how fitting this picture sometimes was. His hands meekly in his lap, he removed his gaze, so Mycroft wouldn't see. Let the older brother think he was too ignorant to follow, while he actually hid the way his smile turned into mocking as he replayed in his mind an aspect of the dark side the other man could only guess at.

#

Passing him by, Sherlock placed a glass of grapefruit juice in front of him. He did those things from time to time. Those small favors and services were his way of apologizing, without actually having to say the words. And he had said and done enough that day to apologize for. God knows!

So, naïve John Watson had taken up the glass, even toasted Sherlock smiling forgiving and drank it. Only hours later did he recognize the significance of the content of the glass. Grapefruit juice. He was a doctor after all. But, no matter how long he lived with the man, he could never anticipate the complex, convoluted, twisted and vicious thoughts of Sherlock Holmes. To him this was merely a peace offering, he had accepted innocently.

It was only when Sherlock sat in his favorite armchair by the fireplace, fingertips of both hands touching his lips again and again, gaze alternating between himself and the mantlepiece clock, that he knew something was up. John started to feel very warm. His heart-rate sped up.

"Oh, good. You already are flushed. Exactly 12 minutes. You seem to be quite receptive," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Receptive?"

John asked, getting up. He was panting slightly and felt the need to steady himself on the table.

"Receptive to what?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Never mind!"

He got up out of the chair, loosing the dressing gown in one, fluid chucking motion. His dress-shirt stretched over his chest, pulling at the buttons, so tight it was. Sherlock always wore these tight fitting cloths. Tonight it was a white shirt and John could almost see through it, as it stretched. See a tight, hard nipple. He panted harder. His mind was a little fuzzy.

"Sherlock... what have you done?"

"Me? Nothing. I brought you juice. You drank it. Remember?"

Of course John remembered. He wasn't stupid after all. But there must have been something... Sherlock almost had closed the distance to him. Casually he was opening the buttons of his shirt. John saw his own hand reaching out to him longingly. He couldn't stop it. No, he didn't want to. He wanted Sherlock. Needed him. Oh yes. He needed to be touched. Needed to touch.

"Hm. Eager, are we John?"

The mocking tone of voice was not lost on the smaller man, but he didn't care. Couldn't care. He had no pride. Not at this moment. It couldn't seem to find it's way through the warm, fuzzy fog settling in his mind.

"Yes... yes, Sherlock. Very eager," he agreed, moaning slightly, as his hand finally touched the bare, white skin, revealed by the opened shirt.

"That's good, John. Very good, indeed."

Sherlock's voice was so low, it was almost like a purr, caressing John's ears. He was grabbed by the front of his sweater and pulled from behind the table closer to the detective. Sherlock wove his long fingers in his hair, only to pull his head back a moment later. John groaned. The unearthly green eyes twitched fast, as the other man took in every slight detail of him. The doctor might have felt like a specimen under the microscope, if he could have mustered enough braincells to care. But the few cells left working were pretty busy enjoying the warm skin under his fingers and admiring the full, pink lips trying to will them to kiss him.

It seemed to be working. Finally Sherlock closed the distance between their mouths. The full lips brushed his ever so slightly. Moaning his own lips parted, invitingly. John's heart was racing in his chest, blood boiling in his veins. He craved Sherlock's touch with all his being. But the tease just licked his lower lip, nipped it. John heard himself moan pleadingly, felt himself quiver. They had barely done anything. Why was he so horny?

He couldn't really reflect on it. The question was drowned in need as soon, as it had surfaced. The tongue was still teasing him, licking in feather touches, while the green eyes observed him. His own tongue snaking out to make contact was evaded, made the other man retreat altogether. Only warm breath ghosted over his wet skin. Trying to lure the detective back, he tried something else. Moving his hand slightly, John's fingertips brushed Sherlock's nipple. It was very sensitive, he knew and he got what he wanted. Oh yes, dear God, he got it. Accompanied by a hiss the grip on his hair tightened. Sherlock's lips crushed his own, tongue plunging in, like it owned the place. Well, in a way, it did. Teasing the hardening bud softly, John encouraged him to ravage him thoroughly.

As the detective finally let go of him, John's knees felt weak, his head was spinning and he was sucking in much needed air. Sherlock's breath was only coming slightly faster and he was smiling very self-satisfied. He let go of his hair.

"You're doing a wonderful job here, John, looking so flushed, being so eager. Though, you might rue it tomorrow, I suppose. You see, I took one of those little blue pills. Viagra? Sildenafil? You know how they work. Without your help, your little show, they would do nothing. But, oh, you have to be so hot, so willing. Now look what you've gone and done."

Sherlock was gripping his hand, pushing it down from the chest, lower, lower, til it cupped a raging hard-on. John swallowed audibly, as his hand was guided up and down over that hard, hard bulge. Soft locks brushed his flushed cheeks, as Sherlock bent to his ear.

"Now I can go the whole night."

He was nipped in the earlobe and shuddered. Viagra? Why on earth would Sherlock do that? John could very well attest to the fact, that the man had no need for it. But it was something new. Something to change the game. Perhaps even something Sherlock wanted to study for some reason or another. John's eyes now flitted to the clock on the mantlepiece. One pill, he had said. The effect of Sildenafil lasted for about four hours. Dear God, now he was quite sure he _would_ rue his wanton actions tomorrow. But even while these thoughts passed through his momentarily slightly cleared head, his hand still moved over Sherlock's pants. He just couldn't help himself.

In two pulls the detective had tugged his shirt from his pants, opened the cuffs and let it slide off his shoulders. John got the drift and pulled off his sweater, too. While Sherlock had dropped his shirt carelessly on the floor, the doctor draped the sweater over his chair. But as soon, as that was taken care of, his hands were back. They opened Sherlock's pants, reaching inside, stroking the still trapped hard flesh. The detective's underwear always was as tight, as the rest of his cloths, displaying his perfection in every sense.

John panted even harder now. He was pressing up against Sherlock. His own jeans felt quite tight now. Straining for contact he rubbed himself against the other man's thigh. A long fingered hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back.

"Don't behave like any randy street mutt, John," Sherlock reprimanded him.

John hung his head.

"Than touch me? Sherlock... please," he asked, looking up at the other man.

"Take your cloth's off."

It was an order. Sherlock's hand had only moved slightly, but even the Queen herself could not be any more imperiously. John had been a soldier. He was conditioned to follow orders. So he didn't think twice. It was with a deep thigh, that he opened his jeans and an even more relieved sound, as his underpants came off.

"My, my, John", Sherlock was saying, as his gaze roamed over the naked body, only to halt at the proud standing erection, "you really are quite eager. But we have only just begun. I can't have you give out on me half-way through the night, now, can I?"

Oh, no. Not that. John knew exactly what Sherlock indicated. He was shaking his head slightly, his gaze pleading.

"Sherlock, I don't think we nee...," the doctor started, but was interrupted.

"Exactly, John! You _don't_ think! You're just not good enough at it. That is my expertise."

John bit his lower lip. He hated it, when Sherlock got this way. The man was a genius, there was no doubt about it, but that didn't mean every one else was dumb. And he especially hated it, when Sherlock included him in that group of everyone else.

The detective took the step, that had separated them. He pulled something from his pocket. Again he was leaning to his ear.

"You will take it. You _know_, you will enjoy it... in the end..."

"Aaaah!"

John's eyes closed, as he moaned deeply. Sherlock's hand had closed on his aching member, stroking it slowly. Again he felt his knee's weaken, his hand blindly reaching for the table next to him, to steady him. It was a feathery light brush, as Sherlock slipped it on. John moaned slightly. He didn't need to look, to know, it was Sherlock's favorite. A long, dark violet silicon string, with an adjustable stopper. John hissed painfully as it was pulled tight around the base of his cock, his fingers digging into the wood of the table.

"There you go, John. So much better. Now we don't need to worry about your endurance."

Sherlock slowly stroked the flesh again. No. _He_ didn't need to worry. Only John did. He sincerely hoped Sherlock didn't plan to keep that thing on him the whole time. He did not dare think about that.

"Now, I really need to get out of my pants. They are getting very uncomfortable," the detective said.

John's eyes opened. He felt steady enough now to let go of the table.

"Let me help you with that", he offered.

Sherlock let go of him, which, at the moment was for the best. The silicon strap was already uncomfortably tight, but John knew it could get much worse if he was fondled more. So it was better for him, to care more about Sherlock. Before John could push the pants down, the other man took another thing out. A small jar. Always prepared. The doctor felt a delicious shudder run down his spine.

Carefully he lifted the tight waistband of Sherlock's underpants. The red, hard shaft was straining to get free. John pulled the fabric down. He couldn't help but moan, as the stiff member sprang free. Dropping to his knees John took the pants with him and helped Sherlock out of his slippers and socks.

As he finally looked up, there was no way he could disregard the hot flesh stretching right in front of him. Even more compelling though, was the gaze of the other man. Sherlock's green eyes were almost forest dark, as his pupils dilated in lust. A special heat ignited in the doctor's groin. This was it. This was one of the moments, that made it all worth it. Sherlock's whole attention was focused on him. He felt it wrap around him like a warm, cozy blanket. Nothing else existed now, but for what they were about to do.

John's hand wrapped around the cock. Making sure Sherlock kept watching him, he slowly licked around the head. Dragging his tongue along the underside, he pressed it to the vein on the way back. His eyes burned as he watched Sherlock watching him. The detective was panting now. He reached out, wove his fingers into John's hair. The tip of his tongue teased the slit, until he tasted the first, salty bead. Wetting his lips, he wrapped them all around the crown, sucking gently.

"John..."

His name, a perfect, delicious moan. Again heat ignited in John's groin. Ever so slowly the cool exterior of the aloof detective unraveled as his mind was taken over by his instincts and feelings. Even though other people doubted it, underneath that hard shell, there was something softer. There were feelings. John had seen them, he had felt them, reveled in them. They were his secret. They were, what made him stay, take the abuse Sherlock so easily dealt out, sometimes even without realizing it.

His head was moving, lips gliding up and down the length. The fingers in his hair were flexing. Moaning deeper, Sherlock's hand began to guide him. John closed his eyes. He knew, what was coming, and he let it happen. He always did. Relaxing his jaw, John gave up any form of control. The grip on his hair became tight, uncomfortable. He whimpered only slightly, as Sherlock used him. He felt him in his throat, felt the urge to gag, but he knew how to control it. It was his only control, when he was with the other man. Sherlock needed this, he needed to be in control of each and every little thing. John gave it to him.

Again and again the hard flesh plunged into his mouth. His head hurt, where his hair was being pulled. A few choked groans were muffled, as the back of his throat was hit. His lips burned from the constant friction. But his ears rang with the sweet sound of Sherlock's pants and grunts and moans. His movements became erratic. And finally, finally the detective came. Warm seed spilling down his throat, filling his mouth. John's eyes were opened wide, as the grip in his hair felt like it would all be pulled out, as he tried to swallow around the large shaft still rammed deeply into him. He choked and only, as he started coughing, did Sherlock loosen his grip. John fell back, coughing, hands before his mouth, spilling some of the fluid, as he tried to get back some air in his lungs. He didn't get much time, though. Already Sherlock's hand was back in his hair, pulling him up. The man's other hand cupped his chin, thumb gliding over his wet lip.

"You spilled a little there."

As Sherlock leaned in, to lick his chin and lips, John couldn't help but moan deeply. His bruised lips were extra sensitive now, so he felt the rough texture of the tongue even more intensely. He couldn't quite decide if it felt good or bad, but he knew, he didn't want it to stop. As Sherlock once again took possession of his mouth, he tried to get more contact. Though his hair was still getting pulled, his lower body strained to press into the leaner body. His wish for more contact was granted. But it was Sherlock pressing into him, making him move backwards into the table.

He was grunting, as he felt the perfect, sinewy body move against his, the still wet, hard member poke into his thigh. When Sherlock released him from the kiss, he was gasping for breath. His blood was rushing in his ears, heartbeat wild. He almost didn't hear his next order.

"Turn around."

It was only when the detective moved a step backwards, that John belatedly understood what was being asked of him. A shiver ran up and down his spine, as anticipation took over. He turned, like Sherlock wanted, to the table, his newspaper was still lying there. The next moment he had the headline right at his nose. The other man had gripped his neck and pushed him to bend over. John was panting in hard gasps, as Sherlock's knee pushed between his legs, forcing them apart.

There was no need for it, John would have done it willingly. But it was part of the game. Part of Sherlock's excitement. It reaffirmed his control and it also vented his urges. Dark urges.

As soon as John's legs were spread, long fingers ran up his cleft. John shivered again. Goosebumps were all over his body. He was whimpering, as a finger rubbed over his entrance.

"The sign's are all over you", Sherlock was telling him, as he massaged the muscle with his finger, relaxing it. "I don't even have to hold you down. You want this. You need it. Why don't you just say it?"

John's heart was in his throat. A stab of deep shame cut through him, as he was aware, that the strap around his arousal became tighter at the words and what they implicated. The hand in his neck gripped tighter. He was forced, he could say it under pressure. That made it easier. But before those words could get out, the grip loosened and his cheek was being stroked. John closed his eyes, unable to bear it. It was all a big power game. He swallowed hard.

"No... you don't need to hold me... I want this... I... need this", John answered hoarsely.

"Ah! You see, the truth. It makes everything so much easier. I will even make it easier on you", Sherlock promised.

Just a moment later, John twitched and hissed. Something cold touched him. His fingers gripped the sides of the table, as he moaned and moved his ass. Sherlock was spreading cool gel around his hole, pushing at his relaxing ring-muscle. John hissed as it slipped inside. Because he felt still so hot and flushed, the gel seemed that much more cold to him. It was a strange sensation and had him moaning and writhing on the table.

"Hmm, John, you really are pretty eager, aren't you. I won't take too long."

"Sherlock... oh... oh God... Sherlock... hmm..."

John was unable to form a cohesive sentence. A second finger had entered him, and they were moving, spreading, scissoring. Somehow, though, the gel still felt cold. It did not seem to warm to his body temperature. Also the movement of the fingers dulled.

"Sherlock... please," he whispered, "move them..."

"Oh, but I am, John. Can't you feel it?"

John's brows furrowed. He was trying to look at Sherlock, but the other man had him by the neck again, prohibiting it.

"Sherlock... what...?"

He heard a ripping noise and some rustling. When he was pushed hard into the table, felt Sherlock deep inside him, his groin pressed to his ass, John finally understood. The cool feeling all around his entrance and some way in. The lubricant gel had been laced with an anesthetic. Lidocaine, most likely. That also explained the ripping noise. Sherlock was using a condom, not to get effected himself.

"You bastard!" he spitted out.

"Oh, John," Sherlock was almost moaning, "this is only... in your... best... interest."

The last words were broken up by his movement. The slapping at his backside told John the fast pace, but he just didn't feel it inside, not the delicious friction, the perfect filling. He knew it was there, sensed it, but just couldn't _feel_ it.

"You... need to... hold out... for a few... hours... this is... mercy," Sherlock told him, obviously fucking him quite hard.

This wasn't mercy. No. It was not. It was torture! The tea cup was rattling on the saucer as the table moved with Sherlock's rocking. He was ramming deep into him, again and again, they should feel like they would become one, but John just couldn't feel. He was seething with anger and frustration, as Sherlock used him. He only knew from the sounds the man was making, as he came. Didn't feel it. Couldn't.

Only moments later he was turned around, pushed back onto the table. His legs up on Sherlock's shoulders he was taken again. He had to watch it. Watch what he couldn't feel, could not enjoy. As Sherlock was careful not to touch his throbbing, caged length, there was absolutely no pleasure for John, as he was pushed and dragged into different positions around their living room. Time seemed to drag out endlessly. Tears of bitter frustration were rolling down John's cheeks by now. This had to be the worst night, he had with the man. He felt like little less than one of those blow up sex-dolls. The only difference was, the doll didn't feel anything at all. He felt used in the worst way and he would have to pay dearly for it, the next few days. The lidocaine could not prevent him from being sore, only from feeling it now. He had been sore before, but had had a night of passion and lust to look back on.

John was given a moments peace, it seemed, as Sherlock stood by the fireplace. He was tipping his fingers on his thumb. Was he creating a new contemplative gesture, John wondered idly. He only wanted this night to end. One look at the clock told him he should have less than an hour to go. He dearly hoped so. John bit his lower lip, as Sherlock came for him again. Meekly he just followed.

When he found himself in Sherlock's bedroom, the doctor was slightly surprised.

"How," he just asked in a flat monotone.

"On your back," Sherlock demanded.

John just did what he was told. He wanted this over with. He longed for his own room. But he would never walk out on Sherlock. The detective might not want him back then. A thought he just could not bear.

When Sherlock came to him, he automatically spread his legs, but instead his face was touched. It was turned towards the detective's. There was something in those eyes. John lost himself in those unearthly green eyes. A few times during the night, Sherlock had pulled him in for rough, ravishing kisses. When their lips met now, his hair wasn't pulled, there was no force behind it. His lips were licked, teased, and only entered, when they opened of their own accord. A slow dance of tongues followed that made John moan longingly. When he carefully tried to touch Sherlock, it was allowed. The other man even began to stroke him, too.

Soon John was writhing underneath Sherlock. Panting he arched his back, when his nipples were sucked at and bitten. The detective skirted his by now almost violet erection and was stroking between his thighs. John swallowed and couldn't help the tears, that were watering up his eyes. This was so good, it was, what he had longed for the whole night and now, that it finally came to it, he wouldn't be able to enjoy it.

A small yelp escaped him, as he arched his back. Sherlock had touched his entrance and he had felt it!

"The effect has almost worn off. I know. I feel it in my own fingers," the detective said, smiling at him in a very self-satisfied manner.

Of course! Sherlock's fingers were as effected by the gel as his muscle and channel were and they had been his indicator. John couldn't help but moan, as he was teased. It tingled, as the anesthetic hadn't quite worn off yet. It was a good thing though. He knew, it wouldn't feel too good, once it wore off totally. Now was the perfect moment.

When John realized Sherlock reached for the gel in his nightstand, he tried to stop him.

"Don't! Please... please Sherlock... don't do this again", he begged, his eyes wet again.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, John. It's okay. It's just the usual. Nothing special."

The doctor was looking into those green eyes. Their gaze was soft and open and he relaxed. John knew he couldn't tell, if Sherlock wanted to lie to him. And he also wouldn't be able to stop him, if he really wanted to use the lidocaine again. So he just waited and hoped. He truly relaxed, when he realized Sherlock didn't want to use it on him. Instead he was coating his own erection and he did not wear a condom now.

A shiver ran through John. His eyes were burning as he watched the other man. When Sherlock took him this time, it was slow and deep. John wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. He felt each and every deep thrust and moaned passionately into the kisses they shared. Sherlock was keeping the pace deliberately slow, stretching it out and John just loved it. He forgot how used and dirty he had felt before. He forgave Sherlock, for what he had done to him. He always forgave him. The tingling sensation receded. Slowly the burning started up. John didn't want to stop, he didn't want this to end.

It was one of the moments, that made it all worth it. Sherlock's whole attention was focused on him. They were in their own world. No one could ever understand it, no one could enter. John ignored the burning getting stronger. But Sherlock didn't. He saw it. There was no way to hide anything from the genius detective.

When Sherlock finally loosened the silicon strap around his cock, it actually hurt. It took two strokes. John cried out, arching off the bed, as he exploded, the orgasm, so long held back, ripping through him with unbelievable force. He splattered both of them copiously, while he shivered in wave after wave of ecstatic relief. When he felt Sherlock filling him with his seed, he gripped him tight, holding on, panting, concentrating on that incredible feeling. It took him minutes or eternities to finally get off that high, slumping into the mattress.

While he was trying to catch his breath, Sherlock was already taking a cigarette from his nightstand and lighting it. John was almost about to ask to take a lungful. Almost.

"Hmmm, I must say, the GHB was a surprise. You reacted very well to it. I should keep that in mind...", Sherlock mused, as he was exhaling a blue cloud of smoke slowly.

"GHB? You gave me GHB?"

A surge of anger burned through him, as John realized he had been drugged. What he had taken to be a peace offering had been an attack, really. Now he knew why it had been grapefruit juice. The bitterness of the juice masked the taste of the drug, that had made him so... horny!

"Are you insane? You will never use that drug on me again!" he ranted with all the power he could muster, which wasn't that much anymore.

It didn't matter anyway. Sherlock wouldn't listen to him. And John just knew, he would even take it willingly, if that was, what it took, for the man to focus on him.

#

As he looked up, Sherlock had gotten off the sofa they had set on. It seemed it was finally time to go. He took one last look at Mycroft. A smile was on his face, that seemed to hold all the knowledge in the world. It was almost as self-satisfied as the one Sherlock Holmes liked to display.

Mycroft was just absolutely, utterly clueless.


End file.
